by: Patricia T. Bar-None
I worry about my promiscuous thoughts
for the bee charmers and gypsies I’ve met
since I quit traveling through women like a circus.
Now I perform in a quaint little town, seven nights a week
with a routine that draws less applause the longer it’s seen.
My face is too household for this tiresome crowd,
and these desires I have for other acts passing through
help keep my stomach awake, as if I were The Flying Zambina
curled in a cannon, waiting to be shot into the breathlessness
of amazed spectators who’ve never seen this show.